


All the Best People Are

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: In Asking Riddles That Have No Answers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Harry Potter, Different Childhood, Female Harry Potter, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Personality Disorders, Not Sevitus, Other, Pre-Hogwarts, Slight Animal Gore, dumbledore is worried, i'm going to stick to canon characters only for main characters, rightfully so, the muggle characters are only background characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: “Do you think I’ve gone round the bend?”“I’m afraid so. You’re mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”― Tim Burton, Alice in Wonderland





	1. Of a Peculiar Sort

**Author's Note:**

> Small changes, big changes, and -

Despite the forecast stating otherwise, a light drizzle began to fall on Little Whinging, Surrey, morning of November first, 1981. It misted thickly, droplets of water beading across lawns and streets alike. The windows of Number Four, Privet Drive began to fog up, and Petunia Dursley hastily retrieved a handkerchief and wiped at the offending smudges. It was because of this she noticed something settled just beside the morning jugs of milk. A basket of sorts, with a bundle nestled in it. She correctly surmised, with no small amount of horror, that a babe had been left upon her doorstep.

It was with hasty footfalls that Petunia reached the front door, and with shaking hands undid the latch lock. She fumbled momentarily with the main lock, her shock and horror melting to an uneasy distress. With the last of her obstacles out the way, she opened the door.

A toddler, not much younger than her own son, rested in the basket, a slightly damp envelope clutched in their pudgy fist. Petunia’s eyes left the babe as she searched for any unwanted gazes. If the neighbors spotted an abandoned child at their doorstep, there would surely be rumors. Finding herself alone that brisk, misty morning, Petunia dared to glance back at the babe.

Wrapped securely around the child was a blanket, light pink with the initials HRP embroidered upon it. Petunia dared to guess the child was a girl, deeming that no normal couple would dress their boy in pinks. It was then she noticed the dusting of rain water across the babe’s face, and Petunia’s heart wrenched for the child. What crude treatment towards such a beautiful babe! Whoever left this child mustn’t be of sound mind, Petunia thought wildly, plucking the child from the basket and cradling her close. She rocked her lightly, whispering soft assurances.

It was then that the child woke, pouty lips stretching in a yawn, and eyelashes fluttering. Petunia felt a swell of warmth at the sight, her maternal instincts roaring with the need to protect, care, and love this child. Her heart, stolen by this nameless babe, fettered to a stop. The warmth drained from her being, replaced by a frigid cold. Petunia’s face drained of color as she stared into the child’s – no, not a child’s – eyes.

Endlessly, she felt herself fall into that gaze; that dark, utterly inhuman gaze. No child’s eyes could ever be as dark, as devoid of color as the one’s she was seeing. These were not the eyes of a child, but a demon, a creature hiding behind the rouse of an innocent babe.

Petunia startled with realization. From the moment she had set eyes upon the – not child, creature – she had been enraptured. She held felt the need, the overwhelming urge, to protect and care for it. With its stunning, inhuman beauty, it had eased her into a sense of complacency and Petunia would have been fooled if not for the glaring flaw in its disguise – its eyes.

Its hold on her must have been stronger than she knew, for even with her newfound revulsion for the thing in her arms, Petunia did not drop it. It was still there, the need to protect and love this babe, but she would not let it take hold of her. With stilted movements, she placed the creature back in its basket, taking the envelope.

The handwriting struck a chord of familiarity in Petunia’s mind, and then it all came together: the red hair, the initials, the uncanny aura – this was her sister’s child, Henrietta Potter. Petunia knew, with unerring certainty, that Lily would not have ever left her child on a doorstep like some unwanted whelp. Something of great import must have happened to her, then, Petunia thought. Her assumptions were proven correct once she had read through the letter.

James and Lily Potter had died just of last night, leaving their only daughter alone in the world. She had been left to Petunia’s care because of some convoluted blood nonsense, and she had no choice but to take in the child or face dire consequences. It seemed her sister had struck disfavor with the wrong lot, and now she was dead because of it. Petunia had always known that Potter was of the wrong sort, and now she had been proven correct, too bad and too late for Lily.

Too bad and too late for Petunia, too, it seemed, since she hadn’t much choice besides taking in this hell spawn.

She grabbed the basket, keeping as far from herself as bodily possible, and brought it to the kitchen table. It dropped with a strident clunk against the wood, rattling the already set out dinnerware. The creature didn’t cry or whine at the harsh treatment, and Petunia’s eyes hardened. Not a child, she repeated to herself.

Vernon Dursley, who had been sitting at the table, a newspaper pervading his visage and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand, startled at the noise and then settled. “The morning milks?” he asked, not giving much mind.

Petunia’s lips pursed, arms moving to cross her chest. “No,” she snipped. Her husband grunted in acknowledgement, before a moment passed and his grip tightened on the paper, crumpling it. He threw down the newspaper, face unobscured and coffee set aside. His eyes settled on the basket and narrowed.

“What’s this?” he said, rising from his chair. Petunia sniffed and turned away. Vernon, despite it all, was curious, and as such, moved to take a closer look at the contents of the mysterious basket. His thick fingers sought out the pink fabric, and peeling it back, recoiled. “A baby?” he exclaimed, gaze roving over the unexpectedly attractive child. “A baby,” he murmured, hand stretching out unbiddenly for the child.

“No!” shouted Petunia, grabbing her husband’s wrist. “Don’t be fooled by it!”

“What is your problem, woman?” barked Vernon. “It’s just a darling little girl,” he said, focusing on the toddler once more, the beautiful girl, with her tufts of dark red hair and unblemished, perfect pale skin. “Where did you find her? We’ve spoke of wanting a girl, Pet, and just look at her…”

“Dear,” Petunia whisper hoarsely, one hand moving to angle his face towards hers. “Dear,” she said again, trying to regain his attention. “Don’t let it fool you,” she told him. “That thing is not a child. It’s a creature, and it’s using its charm to ensnare you.”

Vernon looked at her with incredulousness. “What are you on about, woman? That is no creature, but a helpless babe, no older than our own son! What nonsense have you gotten into your head about this innocent child?”

She shook her head wildly, eyes lit with a fervent madness. “No, no, can’t you see? Look! Look into its eyes, and tell me then that you cannot see its true self!” Petunia dragged him towards the child, and angled her grip on his face to meet the creature’s gaze. Vernon’s expression of confusion melted away to shocked repulsion.

“What devilry is this?” he cried, backing away. “Those eyes are inhuman; and here I thought…”

Petunia looked to him with understanding. “It will charm you with its beauty, but it’s all a horrible trick. That thing,” she looked to the eerily silent creature, “is my sister’s child, Henrietta Potter.”

“That thing is your niece?” he replied, incredulous.

“Our niece,” Petunia corrected.

Vernon shook his head in denial. “There is no way I am accepting that,” he spat, pointing derogatorily, “as family. She can be your niece, but I will never call her,” a shudder, “mine.” He huffed angrily. “Now, why is she here? I won’t be having that thing in my house any longer.”

Grimacing, Petunia told him, “Lily and her husband are dead. Killed, from what I was told. As the last of kin, the child was left with us. They expect us to care for the little demon until she reaches her majority.”

“What?” bellowed Vernon, causing Petunia to grimace further. “I will not…!”

“We haven’t any choice!” said Petunia. “The letter spoke of something about blood, and how if we didn’t keep her here, then we wouldn’t be protected! I can’t have some lunatic murderer coming after my Dudley!”

Vernon paused, then opened his mouth to speak once more. Whatever he had to say was interrupted by a cry from upstairs. Petunia startled, then realized it was her son, awakened by the shouting. “I’ll take care of him,” she said, moving to unfasten her apron.

“No… no, I’ll take care of Dudley,” said Vernon, unexpectedly. “You keep watch of that… thing,” he settled on. Petunia was then left to herself in the kitchen, excepting the creature watching her with cold eyes.

“You,” she hissed, coming up close to the child. “You may be my sister’s,” she told it, “But I won’t have your nonsense in this house. If I have to keep you to protect my family, then so be it. However, all you’ll be getting is the necessities: food, clothes, and a place to sleep. Don’t expect me to love you, and don’t expect me to fall for your trickery again.” And with that, Petunia shut herself off from the child, pointedly keeping her eyes on the doorway.

Vernon returned a bit after, and told her quietly, “I’ll let the thing stay, but she’s not to cause any trouble and keep away from Dudley. Where are you planning to put her?”

Petunia hadn’t thought of that. There was the guest room, and the second bedroom, but… “The cupboard under the stairs would fit a child, wouldn’t it?” A look of uneasiness fell across her husband’s face. “It’s not wrong, that thing isn’t even a child, after all; or at least, not a normal one,” she sneered.

“Alright, fine,” grumbled Vernon. “I’ll need to get a cot of sorts. What about clothes?”

“I have yet to throw away some of Dudley’s smaller clothes; they’ll work for now. I’m sure I have some of mine from when I was younger stored away somewhere, too,” she said. Petunia’s eyes landed on the creature again unconsciously, and she shivered, locking gazes with those dark, dark eyes.

“I think it’s best if we put her in there right away,” she said, goosebumps rising along her flesh.

A closet was the perfect place to keep a secret as dirty as that child, after all.

* * *

The next morning dawned much the same as it always did. Petunia dragged herself from bed, changed into acceptable clothes, and worked to make breakfast. She balanced her time between cooking and checking on Dudley, and saw Vernon off to work. It was almost as if the incident from the day previous had never happened; but it had, and sat on the back of Petunia’s mind throughout her time feeding Dudley.

There had been no cries, no whines or noises. It unnerved Petunia, how quiet it was. She almost feared that upon opening the cupboard she would come face to face with something else, some horrid creature deserving of those dark eyes.

She didn’t. The child was simply sat upon its cot, a thumb in its mouth. It didn’t make any sort of noise when Petunia opened the door, nor did it when she approached it and pulled the thumb from its mouth.

“Don’t do that,” she admonished, pushing a bottle in its hand. “Drink this, it’s milk.” Petunia waited for the creature to make some sort of response. “Well?” she asked. “Did your parents not teach you anything?”

The creature’s eyes dropped from hers to the bottle in its hands, and then, with slow movements, brought it to its cherry red lips. It began to suck, draining the bottle of its contents, expression not changing.

“There you are,” sniffed Petunia. “Not as though I was going to help you any,” she told it. “Now, give that back – no, hand it over – there. Open wide,” she instructed, a spoon of food held out. The creature didn’t react, and Petunia pursed her lips. “Open your mouth,” she stated. “So I can feed you. Ah,” she gestured, her own mouth widening.

Petunia harshly pushed the spoon in its mouth when it followed her instructions. It closed around the utensil, and Petunia pulled back, the food staying in its mouth. “Now swallow,” she instructed, feeling as though the child were especially slow. It did, and the process repeated until Petunia deemed it done.

The cupboard door clicked shut, and with one last lingering glance, Petunia headed to the kitchen to clean the bottle and other items.

It wasn’t until a week later that Petunia realized something was dreadfully wrong.

Dudley had already been talking for a while, switching between “Ma” and “Da” since as early as eleven months. Even before then he had made noises and babyish gurgles. But the Potter child, the creature, it didn’t fuss or whine or make even the slightest of sounds. Petunia feared it might be another of its abnormalities, much like how its eyes portrayed its true self, and if it spoke it would be in the damning voice of some monstrosity.

It didn’t, however, and it became increasingly more obvious that it wouldn’t.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with her?” asked Vernon. “It’s not normal to make absolutely no sound. Could she be mute?”

“I don’t think so,” said Petunia. “I’m not even sure if it could suffer the same ailments as us. Lily had always… no, I won’t let myself think of that,” she said, shaking her head.

Vernon was silent, then: “Perhaps it could be caused by that cut along her forehead, the one hidden beneath her fringe. Some sort of mental impairment.”

Petunia took it into consideration, but then dismissed it. “I haven’t a clue, but it’ll make a good excuse for anyone wondering,” she told him.

The next week was spent in a semi-routine of caring for Dudley, cooking, cleaning… looking after the demon child and walking passed the cupboard with carefully quieted steps. Sometimes, Petunia even found herself pausing before the door, an ear turned towards it, listening for a noise she knew she wouldn’t hear.

Petunia found herself dumping the creature on the old lady Figg when the necessity arose. She had been utterly enthralled with the doll-like child, despite her cats shying away from the creature in disguise. Petunia had never believed in the hogwash about animals sensing evilness, but those cats of Figg’s seemed to know what that child really was.

Between all this, Petunia was still able to keep her standing in the neighborhood. She appeared, for all that she was, as the picturesque housewife. The lawn was kept neatly trimmed at all times, the fence stayed an eggshell white, and her petunias were the envy of the street. Her hydrangeas were unparalleled, and despite being asked many times what her secret was, Petunia kept mum. It was almost the life she had envisioned.

She had a loving, working husband that supported their family, and dear, little boy to call her own. And then there was the pest kept under the stairs. The horrid, creepy little not-child that always looked at her with the same face. How could a child – no, she startled, not a child. That was a creature in the skin of a child. A creature which stared back at her, day after day, expression not changing once.

If only she could have the life she envisioned.

But again, she could not have that; not after three and a half years. Primary was just around the corner, and Petunia had to prepare herself. It wouldn’t do to slip up and call the Potter child a “creature” or “hell spawn” or other such thing in front of unknowing company. So, she was to work herself towards thinking of the child as just that: a child.

Petunia gave teary farewells to her son, who had truly grown into himself. He had just the right amount of baby fat on him, and he had inherited both Petunia’s strawberry blonde hair and watery blue eyes. His face was all his father’s, however, and Petunia had spent many an hour toiling over aging photographs of her husband at the very same age and making comparisons.

It was not her son, despite this, that weighted on her mind, though.

Deeply red hair that met her shoulders and dark, dark eyes – she too had to attend school. Loathe as she was to admit it, Petunia knew this girl was a stunning sight to see. Thin lips, reddened as though by blood, and ivory complexion; thick, dusky lashes that framed her almond eyes perfectly, and not a hair out of place. The child was a heart throb, a charming little imp.

She wore a faded yellow sundress, one that Petunia had picked up just in time from the flea market, and a pair of white sneakers that contrasted dreadfully. And yet, and yet, the girl was still able to pull it together to look no less prim on her. Petunia would have been impressed any other time (but not outwardly shown it) but for her? No – she wouldn’t let herself be bewitched.

“I want you to behave whilst here,” Petunia told her sharply. “No nonsense, and certainly no… whatever it is you do,” she said. Henrietta met her stare, and Petunia flinched at the empty look in her eyes. “And… and that’s all. I’ll pick you up when it’s time, so go on.” The girl didn’t move, and Petunia reached out to grasp her shoulder in order to steer her, but paused midway, feeling a strange sensation come over her. She shuddered, looking at Henrietta in ill-concealed fear, pulling her arm back abruptly.

Petunia left, that peculiar sensation haunting her thoughts, goosebumps refusing to fade until late that night.

* * *

It was a few days later that she received a call from the school.

 _“Hello, am I speaking to Petunia Dursley?”_ said the voice through the receiver. It was undoubtedly a woman’s, despite the slight crackle of interference.

“Yes, you are,” she replied with uncertainty. “May I ask who is calling?” It wasn’t an advert, she was certain, but it wasn’t a voice she knew.

_“My name is Deborah Wilks, and I teach both your son and niece, Dudley Dursley and Henrietta Potter.”_

So, this was a school based matter, then. “And?” she asked, twirling the phone cord around her finger.

 _“I have some matters I would like to talk to you about, over tea if you would be willing,”_ she said, emission crackling with a static buzz.

“Is this about Dudley?” asked Petunia, suddenly worried. “Nothing has happened, surely?” Her boy had seemed fine when she picked him up this evening, if not a little tuckered out from the long day.

 _“Oh, no,”_ said Deborah, _“He’s been a right little angel, he has. Your niece, too, for that matter, but…”_

“So, this is about the girl, then?” Petunia surmised. “Did she get into some trouble? I do hope she didn’t cause you too much strife.”

It was silent over the line, save for the light buzz of static. _“No,”_ she finally said, _“She’s been fairly well behaved. That’s actually why I called you, I would like to speak with you in person –,”_

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupted Petunia. “You can tell me over the phone. I’ll be quite busy this week,” she lied, “and I don’t think I’ll have much else time to see you.”

_“But it’s very important –,”_

Petunia rapped her manicured nails against the side table. “Then why not tell me now, so I can take care of the matter immediately?” she offered instead.

A sigh. _“Fine, but it’s generally against procedure to share these matters over the telephone. I called to today to bring to light Miss Potter’s… worrying behavior.”_

“So, she has been causing trouble,” said Petunia, a sharpness to her tone.

 _“No, no! Not at all. I’m instead concerned over her health. She hasn’t once spoke, which isn’t abnormal for children subjected to unfamiliar places and people. However, Henrietta –,”_ she coughed, _“Miss Potter should have passed that stage by now, though, I’m afraid. Not only this, but I have observed increasingly worrying traits that could be signs of something being wrong with the child.”_

“And just what are you trying to say?”

_“That Miss Potter needs to be looked over by a professional –,”_

“No!” Petunia exclaimed, before blushing fiercely. “I apologize. What I meant to say was that the girl has already been checked over by a doctor. You see, her parents were of the bad sort, and my sister’s husband ended up killing them both in a drunk driving incident. Poor little Henrietta was in the car at the time, and suffered a bad gash to the head. She hasn’t spoken since the crash,” Petunia finished with feeling.

 _“Oh, the poor dearie,”_ said Deborah, pity thick in her voice. _“Is that what that scar’s from?”_

“Indeed,” said Petunia, “And we think it have left lasting effects, although we can’t be certain of it yet,” she added on, sure she could use it for an excuse later on.

_“Well, that explains a lot. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to talk with me, Mrs. Dursley. I’ll be sure to give you updates on the matter.”_

“No problem at all,” she smoothly said, “and thank you for bringing the matter to me. I hope you have a good day.” And with that, Petunia hung up, successfully having deflected the school’s worry. She hoped this to be the last of any such calls, but knew it wouldn’t. About three months into the school year, and Petunia received another, achingly similar call. It became another part of having to deal with Henrietta Potter.

It wasn’t until the second year of primary that Petunia’s unease turned to something darker.

The phone was ringing. An incessant, annoyingly loud ringing that was interrupting Petunia’s sole personal time of the day. It was with great irritation that she picked up the phone and snapped “What?” into the receiver.

 _“Mrs. Petunia Dursley, might I presume?”_ the disinterested voice echoed back.

Petunia cleared her throat, then responded back with much less fervor, “Yes? How may I help you?”

A sniff that sounded distinctly unimpressed could be heard over the line. _“I am calling on behest of Little Whinging Primary,”_ drawled the monotone voice, as though she had repeated these words a thousand times over. _“My name is Joanne Hughes, and I work with the School Health Services to manage inquiries.”_

A cold settled over Petunia. “Manage… inquiries?”

_“Yes. We look into suspicions of detrimental health problems in students.”_

“And… you suspect my child might have something wrong with him?” she asked, breath stuck in her chest.

_“No, we are not the ones to lodge queries on the children, that is the school’s job. And I am calling on behalf of one Henrietta Ruis Potter, your niece, Mrs. Dursley.”_

Petunia paused. “Oh,” she said, simply. “Well, I’ve told them before, that the girl doesn’t speak much due trauma, and that she likely has mental issues from the wound to her head,” she told the woman.

 _“That is just the problem, Mrs. Dursley,”_ said Joanne. _“We are inclined to think your niece may be suffering from a mental illness known as Schizoid Personality Disorder or a relative of it, but this cannot be ascertained unless she is brought in –,”_

“You think she’s sick in the head?!” screeched Petunia, eyes widening.

_“Please calm down, Mrs. Dursley. It is, despite controversy, still an illness and –,”_

“I don’t care what you all are thinking, but the girl is just strange. No matter what fancy words you use to describe it –,”

 _“They are not just “fancy words”, Mrs. Dursley,”_ said Joanne. _“Mental illness is a genuine issue and –,”_

“I won’t put up with this! You have no right to go around making assumptions,” she said. “Don’t bother us with your calls again, or I’ll take this matter up with the police,” Petunia threatened, and then hung the phone up with fury, slamming it down. She huffed, smoothing out her rumpled clothes, and returned to her previous occupation.  

Looking back on it, Petunia thinks there may have actually been something seriously wrong with Henrietta Potter.

Things changed after that.

Petunia would say that things had been changing for a while, instead, slow moving and subtle. One day, Henrietta was the quiet, apathetic girl with dark, dark eyes and then the next, Petunia was waking up to a girl with a blank, but more open face, and a light in her pitch-dark eyes. It was disconcerting, and struck Petunia suddenly and without warning.

It had been something in motion for months, and Petunia had been watching it unfold the entire time, unknowing. It terrified her.

Henrietta Potter, creepy child with a devil’s eyes… if Petunia thought her rouse of humanity was convincing before, she had nothing on it now. She very nearly wanted to believe for herself that Henrietta was simply a normal child, but she couldn’t. Not with how the very same child had kept her up for nights on end with just her dark, dark eyes.

She no longer received calls from the school, both to her relief and worry. The girl was convincing in her act, and Petunia didn’t know where she’d learned it. Sometimes, on especially hopeless days, she wondered whether it had ever been real: the constant apathy, inhuman aura, and demonic pitch to her eyes. Those were maddening days, where Petunia questioned what was real and what was not. And she swore, with her heart thudding madly in her chest, that those dark, dark eyes were watching her with scrutiny.

Henrietta Potter wasn’t human. She was a creature, a demon, an unknown horror in a child’s skin and Petunia knew it with dead certainty. A certainty which she often questioned and toiled over for days on end, because how could this child be as evil as she thought her to be? With her beautiful scarlet hair and cherry red lips, this beautiful child with skin as pale as snow and as eyes as dark as night – dark with evil, evil, evil, evil –

Petunia couldn’t be sure, but she was certain that at one point, she may have known, and that’s what keeps her steady. The girl was convincing, but Petunia had seen –

Dark, dark eyes that should never’ve been in a child’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just to make this clear: Henrietta is not possessed by Voldemort, she is a horcrux, and things will (hopefully) be explained in a way that clears up any questions.  
> This is the first part of a series that's not finished yet, but the first part (All the Best People Are) is completed. I haven't checked for errors 'cause my head is hurting like crazy, so if you wanna correct some i'm all up for that lol  
> Also, for those wondering, the main pairing of this series will be Harry/TMR-Voldemort
> 
> 7/1/17 **Minor edits


	2. Whisper a Hint to Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time moves on, as it is wont to do. Henrietta thinks otherwise.

Henrietta could remember her childhood.

Day after day, night after night, until she couldn’t tell the difference between the two, she spent them in her cupboard. It was only the sounds of her relatives bustling about and her aunt’s daily care for her that allowed Henrietta to know whether it was day or night.

Time did not exist in the cupboard. Human conceptions such as the days of the week and the names of months were useless there. In the cupboard, there was only the present, and it spanned endlessly in a conglomeration of day and night and the in-between.

It was dark, in a way that pervaded her mind and blinded her inner eye. There was only the light from beneath the cupboard door, where the wood did not reach the floor. The light would span across the grubby floorboards, and dance when shadows passed through it. Most of Henrietta’s memories consisted of watching her relatives pass by her cupboard door, and how their shadows warped and darkened her light.

The cupboard was dirty. That was something that did not change; it was an ineffable outlier that would remain constant throughout the cupboard’s existence. Cobwebs lined the underside of the stair steps, sometimes with little bugs caught in them, and other times with spiders scuttling about. There were countless spiders in the cupboard, weaving their webs with a finely-honed delicacy.

Dust was never lacking, caking the shelves, the walls and ceiling and floor in equal, terrible amounts. It coated the back of Henrietta’s throat and choked her lungs, it fell upon her face and swam in the light, tiny particles shimmering as they sluggishly floated through the air.

By day, the light would filter through the cupboard, and by night, the darkness would encompass all, suffusing it with utter darkness.

It was pitch black.

Henrietta could remember the darkness, the light along the floorboards, the endless monotony that should have driven her insane.

She also remembered the numbness which permeated her mind.

Primary school then entered the fray, shaking up the tedium which she had grown so used to. It was bustling with unfamiliar faces, screaming and crying and laughing – it was loud, and bright, and not at all like the cupboard. There were children here, everywhere, and none of it seemed to penetrate the haze which had always been, but wouldn’t long be, settled over her thoughts.

Henrietta worked herself into a new routine, one of watching and being watched. She found the expressions of the others to be fascinating; they were lurid in their expressiveness, and there were so many to observe. One child might be crying, their nose scrunched unpleasantly and a creeping redness spreading across their cheeks. Their mouth would be open wide in an ear-piercing wail, or other times gnawing at their lip and choking on their sobs. Henrietta found this to be an especially riveting sight, as it was one of the more potent expressions.

Then, there were times when their faces would redden with something else – something which Henrietta had yet to identify – and their brows would furrow and their teeth grit. A wondrous show of facial lines would mar their face, and sometimes, the red would creep down their neck (or was it up?) and their ears tint with color. This was usually followed by yelling, screaming, hitting, and what Mrs. Wilks called a “temper tantrum”.

Other times, the children would smile widely, their eyes brightening. They would laugh, snort, scream, giggle… Henrietta never tired of watching, and others seemed to enjoy watching her, too. Mrs. Wilks often watched Henrietta with an expression that Henrietta had a tough time making anything of. It was with puckered brows, and creased lines beneath her blue eyes and her lips pursed. Her eyes held a different sort of light, one separate from the children. Her aunt also looked at her with difficult expressions, the ones Henrietta had the hardest time with identifying.

Watching seemed to ease the aching numbness within her. It helped fill the chasm that sat on the back of her awareness, the itching emptiness pushed deep.

Henrietta remembered her childhood, but the memories were dulled, a peculiar grey-scale of nothingness.

And so, she watched, and in turn, learned. There was sadness, anger, happiness; and within those, even more: pity, shame, anxiety, loss; resentment, envy, hatred, guilt, disgust; joy, pride, love, devotion… and then there was fear. Fear was harder to spot; it could show in a widening of the eyes, a tremor of the hands, a lack of color in the face. Henrietta knew now, what it was she saw in her aunt when she looked at her: fear. It was in her eyes, despite how she tried to hide it. A spark of something, an unholy light that clicked in Henrietta’s mind.

Fear was her favorite.

It could be said that there was something wrong with her. Henrietta knew that the teachers spoke behind her back, whispered strange things. Spoke of how she wasn’t normal, too quiet, too closed off. Henrietta recognized the worry in their faces, the concern. In a mirror, Henrietta saw herself, dark red hair and pale skin, black eyes staring back.

Her eyes held none of the light that the smiling children did, nor glints of anger or spark of fear. Utterly blank – her face, her eyes, her mind. With a slight push, she twitched her lips. It wasn’t a smile, or anything resembling one. She took her fingers and angled her mouth just as she wanted: not too much, and certainly not too little. Open, friendly, but polite.

Next, she worked with her eyes. To make it authentic, she would need a slight crinkle of the skin just beneath – yes, right there. Her skin was too pale, and a little color would complete the picture. Henrietta attempted to bring color to her cheeks, but found it harder than it looked. She pinched the skin, and a light dusting of reddish pink blossomed. Perfect.

She memorized how it felt, how each little detail strained her face and where. Practice allowed her to recreate the image without needing a mirror, and Henrietta stored the knowledge away for use. Watching the other children had given her many expressions to work with, and when to use them. The teachers saw her as shy, and so she recreated a timid, slightly anxious smile. An empathetic, sad, partially worried look. A concerned, hesitant façade. Indignant, but bashfully so. A tired, cheeky grin and an exuberant, animated face that positively beamed.

It was odd, to feel her face contort into the many different expressions. She began with slight, shy expressions, intending to start small. A twitch of the lips, a tint of pink across her cheeks, a hesitant glance to her side. It wasn’t much, but became more: a quirk of the lips, a bit of anxious shuffling, her arms crossing over her chest defensively. Others didn’t notice, and they wouldn’t – Henrietta was smoothly integrating herself into a new persona, gradually, bit by bit.

And then the yearning began.

It was as subtle as her, creeping behind the scenes, growing, festering, until it had become too great to go unnoticed. There was an itch, one that she couldn’t identify, and it stayed on the back of her mind. Nothing appeased it; not watching, not the cupboard, not the fear in her aunt’s eyes.

It wasn’t until she accidentally stepped on a bug that a solution came about.

There was a crunch beneath her shoe, and beneath it, a beetle. Its shell had cracked, flaked apart, bits of its softer body showing. The bug did not move, its legs eerily still, even as Henrietta poked it. The sight was oddly mesmerizing, much like how watching the children’s expressions had been.

Entrails spilled from it, some white and others a tarnished yellow, and something resembling blood mixed in-between. Henrietta picked up a twig beside her foot from where she crouched, and turned the insect on its back, and then back around again. She poked its shell, getting the end of her twig under the bits of broken flakes, peeling them off. She swirled the insides around, looking at the unusual parts with fascination.

The itch went away.

It was after that, that Henrietta picked up a book on biology from her school library. It described, in lurid detail, the different organs and their jobs, how they worked and where they were. Every creature’s body was made separately from another; one could have organs in one place, and the other, another. One creature’s organ might look one way, another’s a dissimilar way.

Henrietta grabbed a book on zoology and brought it to the counter, where the librarian could check it out under her name.

“Interested in animals?” he asked, flipping to the back of the book, not looking up. His glasses hung low from their perch on his nose. Not receiving an answer, he glanced up. Upon spotting Henrietta, recognition settled across his features. Smiling lightly, he said, “I loved this book when I was younger, mostly because of the pictures in it. Some are quite graphic, however, and you’re only in your second year, aren’t you, Miss Potter?”

Henrietta nodded slightly, seemingly surprising the man.

“Then it wouldn’t do to have you reading this,” he shook his head. “I know of another book that doesn’t have –,”

“No,” interrupted Henrietta. The librarian startled violently. For good measure, she made sure the blood rushed to her cheeks, and shuffled her feet. Her brows puckered for a moment before smoothing out, determination bleeding into her features. “I would like that one,” she continued, her voice soft and of low tenor. Her look of resolve softened into an unsure, anxious expression. “I like biology,” she whispered.

If he had looked surprised earlier, the librarian was utterly flabbergasted now. “R-Right,” he said, then caught himself. “You like biology, then? I can help you find a bunch more books on it, if you would like! Here, let me…” The book was handed back, checked out under her name. The librarian smiled. “Biology is only brushed on in primary, sadly, so most of the books shelved aren’t detailed. I have some from secondary school courses in the back, however. They’re a bit harder to read, though,” he warned.

Henrietta shook her head. “That’s… That’s fine. Thank you.”

“No problem. Would you like to look at those books now?”

* * *

Cell theory, genetics, botany – none of it compared to anatomy and physiology. The body was comprised of systems, organs, tissues, and so on down the line. Dissection was a topic often mentioned in her texts, and Henrietta liked to call her experiments such.

She began with small creatures: worms, insects, anything inconspicuous enough. They were interesting to take apart and study. Some of the organisms listed in her zoology book didn’t include the labeling of their internal organs, and so Henrietta made her own.

To keep things interesting, she never repeated an experiment long enough to grow bored. From the multitude of ways to kill the creatures to the variety of species she experimented on, Henrietta always had something to new to try: suffocation, decapitation, dehydration, starvation, incineration, to cannibalization.

She found it especially interesting to watch as two separate species, entrapped in a glass jar, dueled for the right to eat the other. It showed just which specie was stronger, more devious, more capable in surviving. Henrietta watched, ensnared by the beauty of life and death.

* * *

“Oh, Henrietta dear,” said Mrs. Figg, rounding the corner, a tray of biscuits in hand. Henrietta pried her gaze away from the cat perched atop a high shelf, hissing all the while. “Goodness!” she breathed, setting down the tray. “Mister Mittens is usually so polite, too…” Mrs. Figg muttered.

Henrietta shook her head, giving the woman a slight smile, which she swooned at. Rising from her seat, Henrietta made her way towards where Mrs. Figg sat the tray.

“These are for you, dear,” she said. “I have tea broiling in the kitchen, if you’d like a cup.” Henrietta nodded her acquiescence, stealing a biscuit from the tray to nibble on. Mrs. Figg motioned for her to sit, and so she returned to her seat, Mrs. Figg following. “I’ve noticed you taking an interest in my cats recently,” she started conversationally. Henrietta did not flinch, but instead smiled demurely. Mrs. Figg returned the gesture, smiling kindly. “I’m sorry to say that they’ve been quite fickle in past years, and tend to hide during your visits.”

A moment of silence, then: “It’s alright.”

It took a moment, but she startled, dropping her biscuit. “Oh, dear me,” she said, bending to pick it up. A laugh escaped her lips before she exclaimed, “You’re always so quiet that I jumped! Don’t feel bad, dearie,” she said, seeing the false concern plastered on Henrietta’s face. “I must be getting on in age.” A whirring scree, and then, “That must be the tea. I’ll be back in a moment.”

In the wake of solitude, Henrietta’s face reverted to her usual blank expression, as she turned to stare at Mister Mittens. The cat hissed and spat at her from its high perch, swiping a paw through the air. Henrietta’s eyes trailed along its body, imagining the pulsing flesh beneath and the strings of entrails coiled tightly inside. Mister Mittens yowled and cowered, backing away as far as he could, tucking himself in the corner and making himself appear smaller.

“I have the tea,” announced Mrs. Figg, and Henrietta turned to face her, expression relaxed and eyes glinting merrily. “Made just as you like it. No sugar, an ounce of cream.” Henrietta smiled gratefully, cradling the cup close. Mrs. Figg glanced behind her, and then asked, “Did Mister Mittens finally leave?”

Henrietta shrugged, stirring her tea.

* * *

It was only when she was at Number Four that Henrietta could drop all pretenses. She needn’t keep a mask up while at the house, but she never quite let herself fall back into the numb existence that was her younger years. That was something she would avoid at all costs, even if it demanded her every waking moment to keep it away. She was alive, now, and Henrietta wouldn’t let anyone take that from her, even herself.

The only possible drawback of letting go, of not keeping a mask, while in the Dursley household would be the Dursleys themselves. Henrietta was certain Petunia still feared her, the look never having left her eyes, and Vernon was easily coaxed into believing as she wanted. Dudley – fat, stupid, pig headed Dudley – should be easily cowed with a little force.

Scarfing down slick, freshly cooked bacon, the boy was the picture of gluttony. He hadn’t quite left behind his child fat, instead turning it to an unhealthy excess of weight, and his intelligence hadn’t grown much, either. With his thin, blonde hair plastered to his face, grease dripping from his chin, and his beady eyes… Henrietta couldn’t quite help but imagine a pig with rolling layers of fat, squealing and snorting and choking down gruel.

Unbidden, another image entered her mind: A pig, squealing, but instead with fright; its body wriggling and squirming, hooves kicking futilely at the air. The pig, screaming as it was killed, chopped up and sliced, packaged and sent away.

Henrietta was stirred from her thoughts by an irately snapped, “What?” It seemed that Dudley had noticed her staring. One of his hands was raised to his mouth in an aborted motion to eat another slice of bacon, whilst the other gripped the edge of the table, smearing grease along the cloth. Petunia was glancing surreptitiously out of her peripheral vision, shoulders taut and lips pursed. There was nervousness in her gaze, and delicious fear too.

She wanted to see that same fear in Dudley’s watery blue eyes, so much like his mother’s. To douse his arrogance, the glint of annoyance that stared back at her. She wanted to watch as they clouded with surprise, with horror, and damning fright. Henrietta wanted to see the fear consume him, wanted to put him in his place.

And what better way to do it than the same way she did his mother?

“You know,” she stated offhandedly, noticing how they stiffened, their backs straightening. Her eyes met Dudley’s, and found a smidgen of unease in his gaze. “The piggy squealed when they chopped it up.”

“Wha-What?”

“The piggy,” she repeated in her dull, tenor voice, nodding at the bacon in his suddenly tight grip. “It screamed. And cried. And begged not to be killed. But guess what?” Dudley gulped, and Petunia’s shoulders were openly shaking. Henrietta leaned in, no maniacal grin on her face, no change to her features – just relaxed indifference. “They killed it anyway. Chopped it up, sliced the fat off its bones. And then they packaged it up and sent it on its way. Wasn’t that interesting?” She looked expectantly to Dudley.

The boy was pale and perspiring slightly. He looked at her with unadulterated fear, no, horror. Dudley Dursley was utterly petrified in his seat, having long dropped his slice of meat. When he didn’t respond immediately, Henrietta blinked, and then he was suddenly nodding ardently.

Head tilting, Henrietta watched his reactions, before pushing her plate forward. She stood, aware of how Dudley flinched, and, casting one last glance towards Petunia, she left. Dudley wouldn’t be causing her trouble any time soon, it seemed. His fear was pleasant to observe, but she couldn’t leave him that way. No, she would break him down, have him fear her completely and utterly, and then build him back up. Have him just as charmed as everyone else.

Petunia, however, she would leave. Hers would take a different approach. While Dudley could be broken with a few good hits, Petunia needed a drawn out, gradual wearing down. She would break with time and effort, but only if Henrietta was careful. She already held a good amount of fear for her, so that was unnecessary at this point. Her will needed to be squashed, like a bug underfoot. She needed to see all those around her fall under Henrietta’s charm, and only then, with isolation, would she begin to crack.

Henrietta had both the patience and the time.

And yet…

“Aunt Petunia,” she said, having approached the older woman after coming home from school one day. The itch was bad. The itch was everywhere. Her chest hurt, it burned, it festered beneath her skin like the bodies she oh-so dearly wanted – no, needed – to cut open; have the blood spray the walls, the entrails in her hands, the limbs strewn about her –

“What?” she asked, suspicion poorly hidden. Her apron was smoothed in a show of nervousness, a tick. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her jaw clenched.

“I need money,” said Henrietta. “I’m leaving.”

Petunia’s eyes widened and her hands twitched. “Leaving?”

“Yes. I need money for a plane ticket.”

A pause, then: “You can’t leave. We’ve kept you under this roof over six years, fed you, clothed you, put up with you. And what do we get? Nothing. I’m not giving you money, and I’m not letting you leave.” Her eyes narrowed in anger. “I’ve put up with you for all these years, and I won’t any longer! Just you see…”

“Aunt Petunia,” Henrietta said carefully, slowly. “I need money, for a plane ticket,” she repeated. Petunia looked ready to protest again, but her features shuttered and evened out. She nodded, her hands dropping to her sides. Petunia left Henrietta without word, then returned with the cash in hand.

It wasn’t a coincidence that it was just the amount Henrietta needed.

The itch, horrid and aching, yearning for more, for something more, and Henrietta didn’t know if she could handle it any longer.

She wanted it to stop.

(Oh, did she want.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just gonna add for any wondering, this won't be a sevitus fic. I made it kind of hard to tell with the change in eye color for Harry, so yea, there's that. Also, it's five in the morning and i feel like crap (why do i do this to myself?)  
> I might change the summary of this chap; it's up for debate, really. Just one more to go, and then we'll be moving on to the next installment. Yayyyy  
> I think i may be forgetting something... any-who, tell me whether the chapter was too over the top or something. I really wanted to experiment with a harry who grows up like a young tom (sociopathic, charming, etc) but i feel like i may have overdone it? You guys can be the judge of that i guess.  
> Again, not edited except for the bare minimum. I'll do that once the series is complete.
> 
> EDIT: IM DYING RN I CANT BELIEVE I WROTE "HANDS DROPPING HER SIDES"   
> (Minor edits lol 7/1/17)


	3. Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus worries.

Albus Dumbledore was taking breakfast in his office for what could have been the millionth time that week. However, breakfast only occurred once a day, and he was certain that there were not a million days in a week. What could have been became what most certainly wasn’t, and neither his tea nor sherbet lemons could ease his increasingly frustrated mind.

Three things kept Albus from leaving his – despite it all, comfortable – seat at the headmaster’s desk. One, being complaints from the British Isles over the fact that they are not under Hogwarts’ listings; two, being the matter of Wales and the Isle of Man’s magical governments and their refusal to cooperate with the British Magical Ministry; and three, the thrice damned paper work.

Hogwarts often received missives, and occasionally howlers, centered around children not receiving their acceptance letter. It was usually due to either said child being a squib, an infringement on creature laws, or, what their current predicament was caused by, out of boundaries.

Students were automatically added to the register from all of Great Britain – that being Northern Ireland, and Ireland – not Crown Dependencies such as the Isle of Man or the Bailiwicks of Jersey and Guernsey. Any witch or wizard wanting to attend that was not within the boundaries would need to apply manually. However, many did not seem to understand this fact, and took it personally.

This year had been one of the worst for these cases, and the brunt of problem was left on the Headmaster’s shoulders. Albus was tempted to hand it over to Minerva – she had offered him the choice, after all – but it felt it was his personal duty to take care of it. The parents were justifiably concerned and he did not fault them for that, even if the work was piling up.

It wasn’t just these, however, that he had to deal with. No, as Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he was expected to manage the growing turmoil between the British Ministry, Wales, and Isle of Man. Despite the Isle of Man being under the Queen’s rule (by technicality) it was still its own government – just as the rest of the isles – and as thus had its own ruling system separate from each of the United Kingdom’s many governments.

Wales had recently declared the Minister inept and unable to handle joint affairs properly (due to a long standing, creature related problem) and was on the verge of breaking ties with the government that were supremely important to keeping allies with several lesser magical communities. The minister had snubbed their proclamation, not realizing the importance of keeping Wales within their circle of influence, nor the legitimacy of their threat.

There was also conflict rising in the Isle of Man. It had been recently uncovered, much to the island’s indignation, that the British ministry had been subtly interfering with their government behind the scenes. It had caused an outrage, and the British ministry had been forcefully removed from the mess. That had been months previous, but the matter was still a sore subject, and would soon be brought conclusion either through Mann’s dissolution from the British magical community, or would remain in stalemate until another solution was reached. Albus was working to keep that from happening; the Isle of Man’s magical community may not contribute much, but it was never a wise idea to make enemies, or in this case, lose allies.

The two problems had conjoined to an all-together, extremely frustrating mess. Wales and the Isle of Man seemed to be in an agreement of sorts, and things were looking grim. Albus thought he might be able to salvage the alliance with Wales if Millicent agreed to go along with his advice. An apology would be in order, and a resolution of the creature-related matter. Millicent wasn’t terrible at her job, but she had fared better during a time of war, he was sad to note.

The Isle of Man would be harder to keep a hold of. Events had led to a political tight rope walk; one wrong move and cord would be cut. Albus would try, and hope that the resolution would not be as bad it looked to be heading towards.

It was then that a sound went off, a high, careening note that Albus immediately recognized. A silver trinket, its insides more convoluted and intricate than its outward appearance, was billowing steam at an alarming rate. Albus clutched his wand, heart stuttering. The blood wards had fallen.

“Fawkes!” he called, immediately on alert. The phoenix swooped from its perch with a cry, wings unfolding in a magnificent blaze. As soon as he touched Albus’ shoulder, the two were gone in a flurry of sweltering flames.

They landed in front of conglomeration of similar looking houses. Albus stalked across Privet Drive, already having prepared for a muggle street, a discrete charm cast upon his person and Fawkes. He reached Number Four and knocked upon the door with heavy hand.

There was no dark mark laden across the sky, no burning or pillaged homes. Albus noted all the signs – or lack thereof – for any sort of attack. His attention was commandeered by the door opening and the sight of Petunia Dursley, openly sneering. There was also something else in her expression – a hint of fear? Not unusual, it had been there previously as well, but this felt different; looked different.

“Mrs. Dursley,” he said as way of greeting. “Might I come in?” She glanced about, hands clutching the side of the door. Her eyes landed on Fawkes, and with a repressed shriek, she grabbed hold of his robes and tugged him inside Number Four. The door shut with a slam behind him, and Albus ignored the rough treatment in favor of getting down to business.

His casual, kindly demeanor fell, a graveness overtaking him. Petunia felt the decrease in temperature, and her hands, tightly clasped together, shook. “Petunia,” he said, “Where is Henrietta?” The house, he noted, was immaculately clean, and picture frames lined the closest wall. There was not a single one of Henrietta.

Her arms crossed against her chest as she looked away. “The girl left,” she said, as though that explained everything.

“Left to where? Did someone take her? Did she leave on her own?” Albus hoped it was the last. If Henrietta had run away, then she wouldn’t have gotten far. The blood wards couldn’t be salvaged at this point, sadly, but there were other options available for protecting the Girl Who Lived. Even if, much to his discontent, they could never compare to the blood wards that had been around Number Four.

Petunia sniffed. “She left on her own. I tried to stop her, I did, but…” she shuddered unpleasantly. Albus felt a creeping suspicion, a sort of familiarity. He resolutely pushed it away, determined not to go down that train of thought.

“But?” Albus prompted.

Petunia nervously gripped the hem of her shirt. “I – no, I must’ve imagined it.” She laughed, and it was of the hysterical sort. Albus’ concern rose. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway… I must be crazy.” Fawkes let out a trill, and the woman’s tense shoulders slumped, face relaxing.

“I’m sure I won’t think you crazy, Petunia,” he told her. “Why, a great many think myself as having a few loose,” Albus tapped his head, a wry smile playing at lips. “Now, what might be bothering you?” he asked, certain that whatever she had to say would be important.

Petunia looked to him with uncertainty. “If I tell you, you will still take the girl, won’t you?”

_“He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say? …And nothing I say can change that?”_

“Definitely,” Albus replied immediately, answering a different question entirely.

“Well,” said Petunia, “Sometimes I wonder whether the girl is really as she appears.”

“Oh?”

She nodded, lost to her thoughts, continuing, “Yes. I remember her being a strange toddler; she rarely ever cried, or make much sound at all, in all honesty. It wasn’t normal for a child to be that quiet, and… and I remember her eyes. Dark, dark eyes. They weren’t normal.”

“So, you were put off by her behavior and appearance?”

“That’s not it!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It’s more than that. Her eyes – they weren’t normal. They were inhuman, and so cold, and empty. Her face was always so eerily blank, and she never once cried or screamed or laughed; it wasn’t normal!”

Albus reached out to calm the hysterical woman, but she evaded his touch. “Mrs. Dursley, Petunia,” he tried.

“No! You don’t believe me! You’re just like the rest of them,” she prattled. “They all think she’s some innocent little beauty. She’s got them all charmed with her wiles, I know it! I’ve seen it…”

“Please, Petunia,” he soothed, “I’m trying to understand, but I cannot if you are unable to properly convey yourself. Why don’t you sit?” He guided her towards a cushioned chair. “And have a sip of tea.” Before her, a floating cup of steaming tea appeared, and she jolted, turning her head away in disgust.

“No, I –,”

“Please,” Albus repeated, the cup nudging insistently at her pursed lips. Petunia gave in, heaving a heavy sigh, and drank the tea. “Now, from what I understood, Henrietta was an oddly quiet child, abnormally so, and displayed a noticeable lack of emotions.” Petunia nodded. “And her eyes… were dark?”

“Not just dark, but pitch. Her eyes were black.”

“Black,” he murmured. “Not brown?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Albus had already known what color Henrietta’s eyes were, but he had asked for the sake of Petunia’s state of mind.

“What is this about ‘charming’ that you mentioned?” he asked her instead.

Petunia seemed to lose herself in memories once more. “She’s a beautiful child, no doubt. Her mother’s hair with perfect, pale skin. When I first found her, that November morning, I had been enamored with her. But the moment I saw her eyes, the spell was broken and I was myself once again, holding that –,” she didn’t say.

“You suspect that a fifteen-month-old witch —,” Petunia hissed, “— was capable of, what would you say, charming an adult, and altering their perception?”

“You don’t believe me,” she said, eyes narrowing. “I don’t suspect; I know. That child… no, you won’t believe me. Perhaps you will see it for yourself. She’s a monster, an abomination. What was it she had said? That’s right – it had been breakfast, and I had served them both bacon. She had never spoken in my presence before that, not once. But I remember it clearly what she had said to my son: _“The piggy squealed when they chopped it up. It screamed. And cried. And begged not to be killed. But guess what? They killed it anyway. Chopped it up, sliced the fat off its bones. And then they packaged it up and sent it on its way. Wasn’t that interesting?”_

“There was – is – something wrong with that girl, and I’ve given you my warning. I won’t have her back in my home, not ever again. Now, leave.”

Albus left.

Henrietta Potter was missing, presumably having run away, and from what he could skim off Petunia’s thoughts, she had taken a plane. An eight-year-old Henrietta Potter had taken a plane to who knows where. An eight-year-old Henrietta Potter with an uncanny resemblance – if one was to believe Petunia’s crazed ramblings – to a young Tom Riddle.

And Albus still had yet to eat his breakfast.

* * *

Henrietta attended Little Whinging Primary. Her current teacher was an older gentleman by the name of Jeffery Anderson, with a large nose and even larger waist. He had been amicable enough, and seemed to hold a high opinion of Henrietta.

“Miss Potter? Oh, yes, a little shy in the beginning, but she’s one of my best students. Always so kind and polite; I’ve never once seen her have a mean thing to say. Friends? No, I don’t think she’s ever been particularly close with any of the other students. She tends to keep to her own. Miss Potter is a very independent child; she’s always been so capable.”

It should have eased his worries, to hear such affable words. However, all Albus could take from the conversation was that she was highly self-sufficient and seemingly friendless, much like another young boy.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called, and Albus turned to her, somewhat surprised. The lady was still quite young, with chestnut brown hair that touched her shoulders and deep, blue eyes. “I couldn’t help but overhear you asking about Miss Potter,” she said. “I was her previous teacher, Deborah Wilks.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Wilks,” said Albus. “My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore; however, you may call me Albus or Mr. Dumbledore.”

“Ah, ah… yes, Mr. Dumbledore,” she said, a little off-putted. “And Deborah is fine.”

“What is it you wanted to say to me, Deborah?” Albus asked.

“Oh! Yes, well, if you had any questions about Miss Potter then I would be happy to talk to you over tea.”

“Certainly, Deborah,” he said. “That would be delightful.”

“Now,” Albus said, comfortably sat in a chair with a fresh cup of tea in hand, “What can you tell me about Miss Potter?”

Deborah’s expression wilted. “She was very quiet. Not once did she speak while I had her. I grew concerned after a week, and phoned her aunt. I was told that she had suffered a trauma from the deaths of her parents. That was understandable, and so I did not question it further.”

“Something changed,” Albus surmised. Deborah smiled slightly.

“Not quite. It was that something did not change.” She paused, stirring her tea thoughtfully. “Henrietta – excuse me, Miss Potter – had always kept to herself. While the other children would play and interact, Miss Potter would stay off to the side, never joining.” Albus nodded, and she continued. “It was after that, that I began to watch Miss Potter more attentively. She never seemed to laugh or smile, or cry or scream. Her expression was always a blank sort of disinterest,” she noted.

“I heard something similar from her aunt,” Albus contributed. “That she rarely expressed emotions, and was morbid in nature.”

“Morbid?” gawked Deborah. “I had never pinned her as morbid in any way. Sure, she was unnaturally cold for a child, and more often than not was unconcerned with the people around her… but morbid?”

Albus smiled, waving a hand. “Let us move on,” he said, and Deborah nodded dazedly. “What else did you observe about Miss Potter?”

“She… She was constantly watching. Watching the other children, especially their faces. Her behavior was noticed by a few other teachers, and the health department was notified.”

“Oh?”

Deborah nodded. “I’m not too sure what happened after that. Henrietta – Miss Potter – moved on to the next grade, and as I’ve heard, she began to open up more – speaking, smiling, interacting and whatnot. If you’re interested, I recommend you speak with Harold, Harold Collins. He’s the librarian, and he often spoke with Miss Potter.”

Nodding, Albus rose, giving her thanks.

“Henrietta Potter?” asked Harold. “I heard that she was removed from school. Is she doing all right?” He was around the same age as Deborah, with messy, mahogany hair swept to one side. His glasses gave him a bookish look, fitting for a librarian.

“Yes, she is. Miss Potter is now attending my school, and I had come by to pick up some wayward files, lost in transaction. It was brought to my attention that Miss Potter often came by here, and I was wondering if you would be willing to give out some information on Miss Potter’s reading preferences? Study habits?”

Harold smiled, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. “Of course. Miss Potter is a studious child, and is particularly interested in biology.”

“Biology?”

“Yes, she’s a budding genius. I found her looking through one of our advanced zoology books, and to my surprise, she had comprehended it unexpectedly well. So, I introduced her to some of our copies of the biology books used in secondary school. She ate them up, and I was glad to see such a bright young girl learning all she could.”

Albus hummed, impressed. “Might I take a look at these books?”

Harold seemed to startle. “Of course,” he said, bustling into the back, from where he exited with a stack of books. “These are the ones I showed to her,” he said, and then pointed to a couple, “And those are the ones Henrietta favored.” Albus thanked him, opening one of the books. Inside was a graphic depiction of an eviscerated human body.

“Oh my,” said Harold. “These can be quite realistic, not to mention graphic,” he said. “Henrietta never seemed to mind, though.”

Concerning.

A woman looked up from her monitor. “How may I help you?” A nametag was pinned to her collared shirt. Joanne, it said.

Albus surreptitiously pointed his wand at the woman. “I would like any files you have on Henrietta Ruis Potter, if you would.” She complied without complaint, passing the manila folder across the counter to Albus. “Thank you,” he told her, and then left.

_Described as ‘a quiet girl with no friends, doesn’t interact much with the other children, and is always seen with the same expression’. Input from assigned teacher: ‘She doesn’t talk, not even to her cousin. I have seen her off to the side, ignoring the other children or simply watching with a dull expression. Her aunt spoke of a lingering trauma and a possible head injury from the time she was about a year old.’_

_Apparent criteria met: No desire for close relationships, including with family; need for independence and solitude; takes pleasure in few, if any, activities; displays indifference to both praise and criticism; is emotionally cold, detached –_

The next pages were shuffled through.

_Possible diagnosis of Schizoid Personality Disorder, Schizophrenia, or early onset of Antisocial Personality Disorder –_

Despite Albus’ status as a wizard, he was well informed of certain muggle practices and studies. The terms listed were not ones he recognized, but he had dabbled in muggle psychology before. It was an area of study he found particularly interesting. Therefore, Albus knew exactly where to look to find what they meant.

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh my goodness i love you guys !! The comments made my day <3
> 
> So, this chapter feels kinda short. I might come back sometime in the future and add more (when i finish the series?) and fix up the minor errors. The next part of this series will be up in two days. I'm going to try and keep that as my schedule (keyword: try). Again, this hasn't been edited except for the bare minimum, so there might be some typos and whatnot.
> 
> The entire thing about Wales and Mann is something i thought up, so it won't be found on the wiki. However, the information about Hogwarts accepting from only Great Britain, Northern Ireland, and Ireland is from the wiki - and i tried to research it as best i could, but still had to fill in some of the gaps on my own. If you see anything that canon disagrees with, I'd love to know so i can fix it (barring the obviously au stuff, such as Henrietta and other plot-specific changes). Also, if my information on Wales or Mann (which i base off what i read online) is false in any way, just leave a note and I'll correct it. I want their magical government to be separate, however, so that will be something i keep no matter what.
> 
> Also, i don't want to offend anyone with mental illnesses or personality disorders. Henrietta is supposed to be like how Tom Riddle was in his youth, but with some notable differences. I figured that during the 20s-30s that mental health issues weren't often treated or known about. Tom displayed quite a few worrying traits, such as low empathy and etc. Henrietta is growing up during a time where mental illnesses are more well known and treated, and so the school notices her behavior early on. More will be explained eventually, and i hope this explanation gives some insight (sometimes i find myself explaining things and only making others more confused, or reiterating information i've already given out.) If you have questions/etc, leave a comment below and i'll try to get back to you or address it in the chapter notes.
> 
> I think the chapter note for the first chapter is showing under the second chapter, but I'm not sure. If it is, just ignore it because i still haven't figure out how to fix that (I'm supposed to be good with computers, damn it!)  
> **fixed the problem i think
> 
> **MAJOR EDIT - So, i had some major discrepancies with my geography (not surprised... i don't know how i passed that class) and britpicky helped me work it out. I changed Wales and Scotland from not being apart of Hogwarts' listing to just the British Isles, since technically they're not apart of the UK, or so i've read?
> 
> I'll come back and edit more eventually to fix up errors and whatnot with canon and other stuff. I haven't read much on the different magical governments, but i'm fairly certain that there are different ones for different countries and nations. How confusing... **
> 
> I'll see you in two days !


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